


I Got You

by PoppyAlexander



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Polyamory, Threesome - F/M/M, quarantining together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:48:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24990070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: Isolating together at first seems like a holiday, but chef!Sherlock's brain won't let go of worries for the un-knowable future of his restaurant. John and Molly take him in hand.Related stories: Just Got Lucky, The One Thing
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper/John Watson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 45





	I Got You

“You’re frowning.”

Molly, scolding him even as she unbuttoned his shirt, thighs astride his hips, doing her level best with her petite body to pin him down to the bed. No, not pin him. Ground him.

He slid a hand up her leg, the hem of her skirt riding his wrist, and the smooth skin was lovely to touch, made him want to touch more, but his brain was racing and had been for the last many long days and sleepless nights. John was on his way, they’d decided to all set up camp together for the interim, and they were making a start in Molly’s clean, pretty-smelling flat per her insistence. It was bigger than John’s but smaller than Sherlock’s, though its general lack of piled-up clutter made it feel as if they’d all find a bit of breathing room when they needed it. Or at least they hoped so. The experiment of their three-in-the-bed dating arrangement had been—and continued to be—not without risk to any number of carefully balanced, spinning plates. Workmates (Sherlock technically the boss though neither of them seemed bothered about respecting that particular hierarchy). A trio, three couples, a triangle, a tangle. Each of them with a retreat to fall back to: John’s cramped efficiency, Sherlock’s musty first-floor with embedded but open-minded landlady, Molly’s unashamedly feminine flat with a balcony-cat she tried to persuade indoors. But the sudden klaxon-shriek of pandemic panic had forced them to make a choice: cocoon together or bid farewell until the NHS invited them back out into shared air.

They’d decided to give it a go, decided to think of it as a strange sort of holiday, and favourite pillows and comfortable clothes were packed; John robbed the restaurant of flour and yeast and six kinds of sugar; Sherlock stashed his knives in their cobalt-blue canvas roll on top of Molly’s fridge. For a few days they had let themselves feel safe and cosy, a minibreak of sex and biscuits, no shortage of wine as Sherlock had been as thorough in raiding the restaurant’s cellar as John had been its wire shelves. But then came Monday with no orders to place, then Tuesday devoid of a meeting with the sommelier, Wednesday without a midweek special to write up. Sunday spent on the phone to the staff, reassuring them their pay was still coming for a few weeks at least. Sherlock’s head throbbed and he couldn’t sleep. The line cooks had families to feed. The servers were students living in flats they could barely afford. His margins were razor thin, and the rent was astronomical, and he’d no savings to speak of, and what else would he do if the restaurant—

“ _How_ can you be frowning?” Molly demanded, the sassy upward tilt of her lip-corner one of his favourite of her flirtatious expressions. “At a time like this?” She’d tugged the tails of his shirt out of his trousers and pulled it open, flitted her little fingers over the skin of his abdomen, skimmed the flats of her palms up onto his chest and right up his throat, catching his jaw and tilting it up so he had to meet her gaze. She raised her eyebrows.

“Sorry, dolly,” he murmured, and sighed, shutting his eyes hard and quickly reopening them.

“You should give yourself a break from all this worrying,” she insisted, with a disapproving frown of her own.

“I’m trying,” he replied, and grinned, and maneuvered the edge of her dress up so he could get a look at her thighs, bare and pale. He spanned his hands across them; he loved how small she was. Not because he could command her, for he rarely, barely could. More because it was such delightful dissonance, her little mouth and knife-edged tongue. Her slender wrists that flexed when she held him in his place, as she was doing now, hands on the sides of his face, not cradling. She closed the space between them, leaned in and just short of kissing him fixed her eyes on his.

“You’re thinking too much. And you’re going to stop.”

Her kiss was full of heat and demand, and Sherlock set himself for surrender. In moments she was on the move, rearranging the angle of his arms, unfolding one leg and then the other to crawl up his body until she had him where she wanted him, and he licked his lips.

She pressed his forehead with three fingertips, forcing an upward tilt of his chin and jaw, and he closed his eyes. The gentle crush as Molly lowered herself to meet his mouth was delicious, and all thought flew away but to taste her, feel her heat, and make her mew and moan. Her smooth, perfect thighs caressed his cheeks, the lips of her pussy already voluptuous with desire. An incremental upward motion brought him in kissing distance, and he tongued her open, lapping long and slow up one sweet side, closing with a brush of his half-closed lips. He drew one soft lip between his own and suckled, then licked and licked again, tickling her. She hummed a long sigh and wriggled, settling in, and Sherlock welcomed the hot, soft smothering.

He let his mouth be wet, painting a stripe up her center, and rolled the tip of his tongue around her clit, a hard, hot bead he knew would swell even more, the more he pleased her. Molly’s fingers scratched a quick dive down the crown of his head, folded up a handful of his hair, and pulled him closer. Working his hands beneath her bunched-up dress to get hold of her bottom, Sherlock steadied himself as his chin ran with her juices and his saliva. He moaned against her, feeling the warm gust blow back across his own mouth, semi-drying his lips. He kissed again, open and exploratory, tasting the salt-and-honey syrup of her, inhaling the tangy sweat-scent deep in the tease of hair framing her pussylips.

Molly put a gentle rock in her hips and a sweet, whining noise rode out on her every breath. Sherlock wanted to please her, because she had taken charge of him, and the flood of relief that came with surrendering to her firm command seemed as necessary to him at that moment as breathing. He lost himself in kissing her, licking and sucking, soaking his mouth with her perfume as she kept him down, prostrate between her legs, while she used him.

There came a quiet groan from the far side of the room, and the familiar swish and rustle of clothing being shed. The thought of John naked while Molly and he were still mostly dressed sent a hot thrill through Sherlock, making his cock strain desperately against the button-placket of his trousers, and he flattened his tongue against Molly’s clit, rocking his head to stroke her.

“You look gorgeous,” John murmured. His landing on the bed caused everything to shift just out of place; Molly let go a small cry of frustration and Sherlock grasped for her waist, trying to settle her back against his face. He wanted to feel her shake, gasping as she came, with her hot cunt oozing over his eager lips. “God, the two of you,” John said, and Sherlock could distantly hear them kissing above him, Molly’s stifled hums and a needy grunt from John, who Sherlock imagined rolling his tongue lasciviously around Molly’s, a showy, possessive sort of kiss. Sherlock felt John’s knees against his ribs and hip, and Sherlock thought he must be holding Molly as they kissed, maybe opening the front of her dress to get his hands inside her lacy brassiere, pinching her pink nipples, tight and hot to his touch. John muttered so Sherlock could hear, “He’s good, yeah? He’s making you wet? I know he is. Yeah, fuck his mouth, ride him.”

To Sherlock’s great pleasure, Molly obliged, selfishly rolling her hips, shifting her weight forward—she must be holding onto the headboard—and moaning in time. Sherlock kept his chin steady and flicked his tongue out and down, again and again, quick, trying to match Molly’s fervour.

John again, repositioning himself, sounding needy, “You taste so good,” and Sherlock whimpered a groan of deep agreement; Molly was slippery-soft and delicious. “Mmm,” John hummed as he quickly opened Sherlock’s trousers, then caught the base of Sherlock’s prick, standing it perfectly upright. “And _you_ taste good.”

John’s mouth as he slid it around the crown of Sherlock’s cock was impossibly hot, tight, and Sherlock’s shout was muffled in Molly’s pussy, the heat of his breath and vibration of his voice making her yelp and grind quicker, lighter, so Sherlock had to take care to keep his tongue-tip flickering over the right spot. Molly’s clit was hot and slick, her thighs shaking, clenching tighter against his face.

John wetted Sherlock’s prick thoroughly with his hot, running mouth, and sucked it deep into his throat, taking his time to sink down tight then draw back, sucking, steady and slow, then down again, swallowing. Molly went on quick-fucking Sherlock’s mouth, her voice high and staccato in time with her panting breath, her cries almost like weeping—so full of need and so near the edge. Sherlock felt blindly for John, found the back of his neck and let his curved palm ride it as it rose and fell. He low-moaned in time with John’s mid-tempo deep-throating, and that set Molly off, her body shuddering, crushing her cunt against his mouth, riding his jaw, calling out a pleasantly-surprised sounding, _“Ooh!—ooh!—ooh!,”_ then sucking her teeth as she slackened and lifted herself away. Sherlock gave chase, craning his neck, straining with his tongue, slid it between the hot swell of her lips, to tease her clit one last time. She made another delightful noise, “ _Oh! Ah!”_ and wriggled away, oversensitive and hyperstimulated. Sherlock went on rubbing his soaked chin and lips against her thigh, smearing kisses there when his ragged breath allowed it.

John hovered around his cock-head, let his lips go slack only to refasten them, rolling his tongue and then flattening it to make space; he swallowed Sherlock down deep. Molly withdrew one shaking leg across Sherlock’s chest and resettled beside him, leaning close to cradle his head against the curve of her waist, dipping her fingertip into his mouth so he could lick it, suck it, which he liked, which she knew. He opened his eyes long enough to see she was watching John knelt beside him, hunched over and sucking, slow-stroking his own prick. John’s tongue caressed the underside of Sherlock’s cock as he pulled wet lips up its length, and Sherlock’s neck arched, and his eyes went tight shut and he let go a loud, open-throated groan. A twist of John’s head, his lips, his tongue, and Sherlock released his neck to grab his shoulder, the best warning he could muster as words failed him and he sucked air hard to let out a long, low, “ _Ohhhh. . .”_ as he came, John and Molly both watching Sherlock’s cum spurt up and over John’s fingers, slicking the way for a few more pumps of his curled palm, a few more pulses of Sherlock’s spunk. Sherlock felt boneless and his mouth was dry but still tasted of Molly’s pretty pussy, and he renewed her taste, running his tongue over his lips and teeth.

“Here. John,” Molly offered, and made moves to meet him halfway down the bed, beside Sherlock’s heavy legs. She’d produced a condom from the butterfly-shaped, enameled box on her bedside table, where she always kept a collection, clever girl. . .and quickly rolled it down John’s length. He knelt, and she climbed astride him, held her pussy open with her fingers, and slid down on his prick. John shuddered and groaned and held tight to her waist. Molly rocked tentatively, until they found a mutual rhythm, and then began a gentle bounce, John’s gripping hands and the natural buoyancy of the mattress helping to lift and lower her. John grimaced exquisitely, and Molly resumed her breathy whines, reaching between their bodies to finger her clit. Her noises intensified; Sherlock watched her wrist and forearm moving, her pert breasts bared—as he’d imagined—by John’s careful, greedy hands.

“You’ll come for me, too?” John growled, and Molly nodded hard.

“ _M-hm_. Yeh.”

“He made you so slippery wet for me. You feel so good inside.”

Sherlock let out a dark sigh, shivery with orgasmic aftershocks, watching his lovers fucking themselves to the finish, after generously bringing him to ruin. They were harsh and desperate, both so determined to get off, get each other off. He wished he were somehow between them, beneath them, and the vision made him sigh again, ending on a happy hum.

John thrust up even harder—faster—and Molly shattered into a shuddery sigh, holding his shoulder hard with one hand, tickling her clit with the other. John shouted, “Fuck! _Yes!_ ” and gripped her hard by the waist, holding her down against his hips as he came. Sherlock watched their faces in profile, shocked by how handsome they both were, a tangle of angles, glistening sweat at their temples. John licked a short swath up the side of Molly’s neck, nuzzled in beneath her chin, and she held his jaw and kissed him.

They unwound, and Sherlock had learned over the course of time that Molly kept a stack of hand-towels folded under the edge of her bed, so reached for one and passed it on. Moments later they were side by side by side on the bed, John in the middle, all undressed, and Sherlock and Molly kissed him hello, on his cheeks and forehead and shoulder. John held Sherlock’s hand loosely in one of his own, stroked lazily at Molly’s thigh beneath the twisted hem of her dress.

“Sorry to have started without you,” Sherlock murmured, and nudged John’s ear with the tip of his nose before leaning away again.

“No worries, it’s all been made up, I think,” John smiled.

Sherlock let himself fall onto his back, one hand covering his eyes and forehead. “Worries,” he grumbled. It all came crashing back: the restaurant, his staff, money, time. “Worries, worries.”

“We’ll sort it out, Sherlock,” Molly reassured him. Her tone around those particular words, had they been said anywhere but in a bed shared by the three of them, would likely have been sharp-edged, all-business. But just then she said them gently, and Sherlock’s eyes prickled.

“Oh, _how?_ ” Sherlock demanded, and it came out harsher than he meant it; he was not one to ruin their moments after, usually a time for quiet, caressing, and dozing.

“Sherlock,” John semi-scolded.

“No, I know,” Molly rushed to dismiss John’s concern. “It’s a mess right now, but I know we’ll be fine.”

His hand still covering half his face, Sherlock only shook his head, and though he tried to stifle it, something choked out of him—a humiliating sob.

“Damn,” he muttered, and he wanted to get up and flee, but his shoulders shook and it was a terrible, hideous relief to let go of the uncertainty, stress, and downright terror he’d been clamping down on for weeks already, and felt sure he’d be coping with for many more to come.

In a moment he was wracked with it, and the bed was shaking from it, and John and Molly were holding him, kissing his hair and his hands, leaning into him with all their might—and they were mighty indeed, the pair of them—to keep him from flying apart. The world was in the midst of crazy change, all uncertainty and Sherlock’s inability to plan making him feel futureless. But his people were there beside him, holding him down, holding him up, letting him fall apart. They were so strong, and he needed—just then, just for a few minutes—to be weak. He had no idea what might happen, couldn’t conceive of anything ever being the same for him, out there in the world.

But then and there—he knew—he was right where he needed to be.


End file.
